User blog:Galletto/Anton Posts (Feb 10r)
Game The sun cast lonely shadows on a solitary figure on a training ground. Anton Delfino swung his blades at the wooden practice dummy in front of him; his more striking red and black garment now traded in for weighted training leathers. He had forgotten so much of what he had learned from years on the streets, even basic swordplay techniques. He was fighting like a novice rather than a seasoned mercenary, and it had almost cost him several times since Returning. But there were those brief moments, where his blades were truly singing again. He hoped muscle memory would finally take over and remind him of what he was capable of… but deep down he knew many of those experiences were gone forever. Nevertheless, he trained. He trained until his muscles screamed. He wasn’t bothered by losing his long dead crew (the Wolves), nor the life he left behind. After all, he was nothing if not adaptable. He had risen from nothing, and despite being back at the bottom, he was sure he could achieve the impossible again. No, what drove him to fury was the inability to trust his own hands to support himself. His name was once respected in the underworld of Cole. Thrust into a world with no influence, and fighting battles that were not his own. Now he had nothing to offer, and his own body betrayed him. He was failing himself. His blade swung wild and missed the target completely. In anger, he ripped off his eye patch and threw the blades to the ground. Another mistake. The blind spot was an obvious weakness. He let the rage and frustration take over as he started punching the dummy over, and over. In his previous life he had gotten accustomed to fighting with the handicap, but now it was preventing him from learning and growing. He knew he could seek out a healer in the Port to heal the eye but…. maybe he still deserved to carry that scar, both on his soul and his face. Perhaps his sins were so great that he must carry their weight even into this new life. He deserved this burden. He stopped punching, and let the sting from his knuckles wash over him. The pain reigned in the anger. But… what if that handicap got someone else hurt, what if this penance caused more pain, if only unintentionally? The thought caught him off guard. He was so used to watching his own back, the thought of trying to watch others’ was…. painful. It cut him deeper than the gashes on his fists. After all, changing his life by looking out for others, fighting and creating a “greater good”…. It’s what got him killed in the first place. But this was a fresh start. A chance to break out of that survival of the fittest mindset. Immediately when he first awakened here, he had tried to help a random Effendal from a swarm, rather than just saving himself. It was unlike him, and it felt… good? Then again, that’s the same drivel “heroes” said, right before they were cut down on the battlefield. What use were poems of your glory, if no one even knew your bloody name? Doing the right thing wouldn’t stop the Ferryman from coming to collect you. That was soul searching he have to save for later. At the end of the day, a new eye would spot a blade before it cleaved him in two. And that was the artless stop gap answer. He simply couldn’t help others until he could help himself; even if a part of him wanted otherwise. Right now, he’d have to stick with what he knew best. Doing the unsavory, and getting his hands dirty. It was a necessary evil to survive. He walked over to pick up his eye patch. He wiped the dust off, and slid it over his head. The cool darkness gave relief to the scarred mess underneath. All that being said, maybe different strategies for succeeding in this new life were needed going forward. Since Returning, he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to make relationships (business or pleasure) or even make an impact in the new community. Maybe he needed a little less brooding in the corner, and a little more face time with the locals. What worked over years to gain loyalty from his men, wouldn’t cut it here. He knew his ever present scowl didn’t scream “trustworthy”, so he’d simply have to work harder at proving people wrong. Not just for himself, but maybe to actually… help others. He picked up his swords again and twirled them around his torso. It was like remembering the lyrics to a long forgotten song. The melody was there, and the words came back in flickers. Regardless of his inner conflict, he liked to practice. Gave him time alone to think. He readied his fighting stance, and began swinging at dummy once more. The sun began to dip, and cast his shadow ever longer. _____________________________________________________________________________________________ Game Laughter from the distant taverns echoed off the abandoned streets. It reminded Anton of happier times that he no longer felt he deserved. He sat alone in a dark alley with his cloak wrapped around himself. Sleep impeded by both the cold pangs of guilt and gusts of wind. Thick black blood had dripped slowly off of his blade. Time seemed to slow down. “Murderer” they hissed. The prisoner lied dead at his feet, restraints still firmly tied around his wrists. While the man had lashed out at the nearby healers, Anton could have waited for help. He could have had patience. He could have eventually saved that man like he did for his other prisoners. But he saw a threat and put it down, just like he had lifetimes ago. He killed the possessed man merely because his struggles to free himself were… inconvenient to his job. He did it as casually as he would put on a boot. And now they yelled Murderer. He could think of a dozen justifications for his actions, but deep down, Anton could not deny the claim they hung upon him. Killing innocents. Granted a second chance at life, and yet still repeating the same mistakes as before. He had fooled himself into thinking he could change; that he could be a force for good. He had worked so hard to build that change, and yet it was all erased by the blood of a single ill-fated villager. He had been so eager to believe. So foolish. “Murder” they roar, but it was drowned out by the wail children’s screams instead. A thousand lifetimes ago, yet still as loud as ever. Loud enough to keep him awake at night. He had hoped the strange ritual later that same night would have killed him for good. That maybe a cosmic sense of justice would finally right the wrong it had created by Returning him of all people. That some good would be brought about if only through ending his life. His two deaths under the ritual blade didn’t take, and someone with actual honor died bringing him back to life. He still walked, and blood still stained his sword. He could not hide his true nature, even if he used good actions as the building blocks to contain it. But he wouldn’t stop trying to fight it. He wanted that redemption, even if it took his own spilled blood to achieve it. It could be granted by neither man nor god; only himself. And there were those who perhaps he could still help until that day came. The cold battered his senses until sleep came. He hoped that the rest would be dreamless, instead of the same burning ship, sinking under a familiar banner. Category:Blog posts